


Uncomfortable Silences

by Ezlebe



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Organized Crime, Canon-Typical Violence, Exes to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 21:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15179621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezlebe/pseuds/Ezlebe
Summary: Dameron drums his fingers on the table, clearing his throat and doing a bad impression of indifferent. “So what do you say?”“You want me to roll over?” Hux asks, turning his eyes on Dameron, then giving a short tilt of his head just to watch the irked twitch across that determined face. “And just to clarify, youareasking me this in the middle of the restaurant I run with the man.”





	Uncomfortable Silences

The _Upsilon_ is nearly full at this hour, only a few empty tables breaking the pristine milieu of a well-respected eatery, though those will quickly draw guests and settle the scene into organized chaos as evening slips into nightfall. Hux glances to the entrance as a swinging door catches his attention, eyes narrowing as a group wanders in, then nods once the maître d confirms with a short glance in his direction that they’ve got reservations. It’s so difficult to train people in the importance of administration.

Dameron drums his fingers on the table, clearing his throat and doing a bad impression of indifferent. “So what do you say?”

“You want me to roll over?” Hux asks, turning his eyes on Dameron, then giving a short tilt of his head just to watch the irked twitch across that determined face. “And just to clarify, you _are_ asking me this in the middle of the restaurant I run with the man.”

“We both know you never planned to play second fiddle to the junkie psycho,” Dameron says, his expression pinching and tone lifting with that particular awkwardness one gets trying to seem hard and apathetic. It’s a glaring sign to the fact he’s little more than a bleeding heart working for one criminal group while trying to suppress another, more enterprising criminal group. “This way? He’s off the streets and you’re out of the country on a glorified vacation, making trouble for someone else’s government.”

“He’s clean now,” Hux reminds, managing to keep his tone prim, if unable to completely rein the venom. He’s encountered recently far too much of enemies deciding they can get on his good side by insulting the parts of Ren that have been, up until a few months ago, carefully encouraged by a wrinkled old fuck. If the FBI went after Ren’s propensity for wasting money on motorcycles and antique neon signs, they might have something.

Dameron gives a low snort, reaching down to grab a toast point – which, judging by his perplexed look at Mitaka earlier, is the only thing he’s planning to eat. “That almost sounds protective – you know, I heard he beat the shit out of you after Snoke ‘ _disappeared’_.”

“A slight exaggeration,” Hux says, reaching up to touch lightly at his throat; it had been rather startling in the moment, if largely more bark than bite when it came to Ren’s usual methods. He had gotten his reprisal with far more blood, Ren offering to bear new scars in awkward places to prove it.

“Enough that it reverses it into trusting the asshole?” Dameron asks, a single brow lifting in lazy disbelief.

“Trust is finicky,” Hux says, looking over as Mitaka approaches with his entrée for this particular early dinner: grilled octopus with fennel. He holds up a hand when wine is next offered to refill, dismissing Mitaka and looking back to Dameron. “But… as you can see here, he’s at least a _very_ good chef. I’m sure even your informant has said as much.”

Dameron’s mild expression quickly curdles with anger, his jaw flexing, “I’m not here to talk about him.”

Hux rolls his eyes, twisting his fork into a portion of octopus with a short flourish, only to pause and lift it to look down the length of the tentacle. He’s slightly wary this display has already been taken the wrong way, and the staff knows Hux only eats meals prepared by Ren, leaving him in an awkward place. He takes a bite anyway; poison has never been a good enough weapon for Ren. “Finn was a… porter, Dameron. He was good one, and no little talented, so he might be able to sloppily guess one or two things, but he hardly knows the recipes or where we source our ingredients.”

“Right,” Dameron says, leaning back in his chair and gesturing at large as he delivers his next argument. “You have no desire to make sure he’s quiet about how you run your _restaurant_.”

“Perhaps, if the opportunity arises,” Hux shrugs, and it’s only a slight exaggeration – betrayal _is_ betrayal, but Finn was part of the organization when it was under the old management. “Otherwise, I’m not going to seek him out. He’s free to wander the city as he pleases – I have greater concerns to tend to.”

“Right,” Dameron mutters, still looking out across the restaurant. He shakes his head a moment later, scoffing under his breath. “I can’t believe this place has got _awards_. Multiple.”

“Yes, the business plan has changed trajectory drastically in the last year,” Hux says, a little reluctant to admit it even to himself. “Ren has become almost obsessed with seeing himself on Chef’s Table.”

Dameron turns his head slowly, eyes catching Hux’s with a skeptical edge. “You’re not going to tell me now you two have _retired_ just to get on a fucking cooking show.”

“Who could know,” Hux says, pausing his eating for a few seconds to take a sip of his wine. He smirks shortly as he glances down to his plate, some auspicious confidence swelling in his chest, though he refuses to classify it further. “But I do believe we’re entering our best years, yes.”

Dameron outright groans, biting at another toast point with a surly turn to his mouth. He chews for a few moments, then points the other half of the bread at Hux. “You are saying no to the deal?” He asks, with an embittered smirk. “Just to _clarify_.”

“On the contrary, I’m saying I don’t know what I’d need a deal for, being an upstanding entrepreneur as I am,” Hux says, keeping his voice flatly skeptical and taking a pointed glance toward the maître d seating another table; they seem to feel his gaze, looking over their shoulder with a stiff nod, nervously gesturing to Mitaka before rushing back to the entrance. “And my business is doing rather well at the moment.”

“It’ll all come crashing when your financials fall through,” Dameron says, his tone bordering on arrogant, but unless something drastic has changed since the last session with Opan, it’s all a smoke.

Hux chooses to allow Dameron the satisfaction for a few moments, then hums shortly, trying to make it seem like he’s suddenly remembered a rather irksome fact of his life. “Our taxes are pristinely maintained and documented, no thanks to certain _attempts_ ,” he says, reaching to retake his fork with a low hum of discontent. “You’ll not find a thing.”

Dameron exhales a low huff, otherwise letting an uneasy silence settle across the table. It only lasts a minute or so, soon clearing his throat. “What if I had offered this a year ago?”

Hux tips his head, humming shortly and glancing down as he spears the last portion of octopus.

“What changed? Seriously, off the books.”

“I do doubt that,” Hux scoffs, tilting his head and finding himself at something of a dilemma; he can't quite say nothing changed, because it had, but not quite in the way Dameron is thinking, and certainly not in any way he'd readily admit. “But… I will say that he's never really been the monster he presented himself to be.”

Dameron falls quiet for a few seconds, then shakes his head. “I think he's that _exact_ sort of monster. The only reason you don't see it is you're just as awful."

“Maybe so,” Hux admits, because he's not quite the hypocrite to deny the accusation, and Ren can definitely still be an angry, unstable bastard, but the tantrum episodes are certainly rarer and have lost that edge of helplessness. The fact he hasn’t stormed out here and picked Dameron up to hang with the other pigs in the freezer is proof enough of his emotional growth. “ _But_  neither of us have a ghoul looking over our shoulders any longer, pointing us in directions we might run into you and yours so he can test us all.”

“Classy,” Dameron sighs, leaning back in his chair with a noticeable twist at his mouth; hopefully, he's thinking about his part in the scandal. "I thought we all agreed not to talk about that?"

“I also must request you don’t ever call Ren Organa a junkie or a psycho within my hearing again,” Hux says, giving into the urge to settle the lingering prickle at the center of his chest. It’s not just a matter of Ren’s reputation, but that of the entire organization; it’s never a good perception to be under the direction of a madman, as nominal as it is. “The fact you thought such language would work, as a ploy, to garner my favor shows the incompetence of your surveillance.”

Dameron tilts his head in recognizable assent, likely spurred by the fact his boss is going to read and hear reports of that wonderful description of her son. “Right,” he mutters, running a hand through the crown of his hair with a drawn-out sigh. He looks up, pressing his lips into a pale line. “Are you going to draw this out with dessert?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Hux says, gesturing without looking for Mitaka to come gather his plates, having felt his stare for long enough from where he’s stood meters away and eager to step forward. “I’d prefer to eat that with the chef.”

Dameron’s eyes flicker toward the kitchen with a start. “Isn’t he going to come out?”

Hux huffs under his breath, grabbing at his wine and downing the dregs with a slow shake of his head.

* * *

Hux sets his glass down at the same moment he looks up, his gaze focusing just over Dameron’s exiting head and unmistakably on the hidden camera. His eyes are intense and confident, mouth set in a smug line, and Ren feels a stupid urge to duck from two walls and a kitchen away.

He manages to keep himself at the desk; watches Hux stand up and turn toward the kitchen, disappearing from view. He even makes a half-hearted attempt to look at a few other cameras, but eventually groans and shoves his head down into the comforting dark of his arms, taking a deep breath and trying to ignore the disquiet already churning his stomach.

The door opens a few seconds later, without even the politeness of a knock, and Ren _knows_ that he’s been taken on some power trip of Hux’s without consent. He tries to pretend he doesn’t care about that, instead focus on the warmth at the center of his chest from Hux spitting at the agent not to call Ren names – even though he fills every accusation, will always do so, no matter how long he’s clean or how long he sees a fucking _therapist_.

“Don’t look so pathetic,” Hux says, shutting the door behind him with a loud kick and cutting off the roar of the kitchen. “And where’s my pavlova; I know you heard me.”

Ren peeks over the edge of his arm, feeling a snarl curl at the edges of his mouth. “Fuck off.”

Hux has the gall to sigh.

“I watched you greet him yourself,” Ren snarls, lifting his head and pointing sideways to the screen with a finger. He's tempted to make threats that he’d recorded the entire thing and saved it, at least until he remembers he has no one to give it to anymore. “Take him to your table. You _knew_ he was coming.”

“I did,” Hux confirms, his hand cutting through Ren’s line of vision to pause the footage and tap the screen to the background image. His voice lowers, daring to be mocking, “And I do hope you’ve paid better attention to our guest’s meals than you did mine.”

Ren grits his teeth, tucking that criticism in the back of his mind rather than letting it drag him into another argument; the dish was practically plated by the time Dameron even walked in. “I know what he offered you. I heard it – bet that was tempting.”

Hux rolls his eyes. “Because I _wanted_ you to know.”

Ren feels his expression twist into a snarl; he had realized that the moment Hux looked at the camera, had obviously been meant to, making this little more than yet another insult to his intelligence. “But how the fuck can I tell that this isn’t just some double bluff – earn my trust, so that I don’t find out later you just – ” He gestures at a loss, knowing what to say but finding the words suddenly difficult to acknowledge aloud and in the open. He tightens his hand into a fist, dropping it and his gaze to the desk. “You _still_ took the deal.”

“Ren.” Hux takes a slow, annoyingly hissing breath through his teeth, reaching up and rubbing at his forehead with an open palm. He drops his hand with a flat, severe gesture, likely very aware of how close he came to smacking Ren. “I am trying to _include_ you. You can’t possibly think that it would be better to just hear a report second-hand from me, or through bloody _rumor_ , all I’ve said to federal agents in our own damned restaurant.”

“It’s how it worked before,” Ren says, rolling his shoulders against the back of the chair. He knows how much Snoke valued the system of his network, hearing reports from his subordinates like a king sequestered in a gilded high-rise.

The organization doesn’t even have that property anymore; Hux had gotten it sold almost too quick. Ren’s throne is either the chair he sits on or a bedraggled couch he found in the alley out back, and keeps mostly because Hux hated it on sight.

“Yes, but,” Hux sighs, arms crossing his chest in front of Ren’s face, hands twisting and gripping along his own wrists. “Despite everything, I have come to realize that what we’ve put together here is… promising, and I’d like to be part of it for a long while. I don’t secretly want _you_ dead or arrested.”

Ren gives a low scoff. “Anymore.”

“Off-and-on,” Hux allows, releasing one of his wrists to gesture cyclically; the pale scar that goes up with length of his pinky is outright magnetizing in the cold light, especially knowing it goes all the way up to his elbow. “And not lately. You’ve proven that you’re hardly the man I’ve ever taken you for.”

Ren looks up, determined to catch Hux’s eye as a troublesome feeling lodges his throat. “At what point?”

“Well,” Hux tips his head, mouth twitching from pressed line to soft frown. “Any.”

Ren glances back down when he nods, biting slightly at his lip and trying to ignore the evolving frustration. It’s technically a good thing, but it’s not quite what he wants to hear, not since Hux colorfully told him if he got close with his dick out ever again, he’d be meeting the business end of an 870. He’s been holding out some hope that Hux would change his mind about _that_ part of their past. Someday.

“I hadn’t meant – ” Hux pauses, hands wringing again for a quick moment, then abruptly clears his throat. “I do mean in the _business_ sense.”

Ren starts to nod again, only to pause, feeling his eyes widen at the floor before he blinks upward in disbelief. “Do you mean – ”

“Obviously,” Hux interrupts, hand reaching forward to slip around Ren’s nape, then summarily pulling himself onto his lap, chair creaking under them with a dangerous wobble. “That was practically an overture.”

Ren shifts reflexively to brace him better, staring upward and chin eventually settling onto Hux’s chest; hands around his hips like it’s only been hours since the last time, rather than four years and change. “Was it?”

“I just declined my get-out-of-jail-free card for you,” Hux says, his voice haughty with the reference, like he’s ever played Monopoly in his life. His fingers slide through Ren’s bound hair, tugging pointedly at the back in a likely reprimand for not realizing the sacrifice. “And I do doubt I’ll be able to call in another should this go tits up.”

Ren grunts a low agreement, finding himself distracted trying to shake the pleasant tingles down his scalp. He sighs as the next tug releases his hair, and shakes his head to finish the job letting it loose around his shoulders. He can’t remember Hux ever using this particular tactic outside of a few post-coital disagreements, but he could be wrong – his recollection until recently can tend toward hazy.

He feels himself freeze up, as all it takes for pleasantness to bleed into dread is a stray thought, and he’s suddenly not sure any of this is _really_ happening at all. It doesn’t make any sense – why would Hux choose now, on a Wednesday during dinner rush, to make _overtures_? But it makes about as much sense as the fact Hux had stuck around at all after Snoke had been killed. He’d had every motivation to… Actually, putting it all together –

“Fuck,” Ren mumbles, blinking rapidly as his eyes begin to burn; his thoughts turning physical and troublesome. He’s supposed to be one of the most feared men in the city, reputation bathed in blood and horror, but all he ever does anymore is fucking cook and cry.

“ _Kylo_ ,” Hux says, and he doesn’t even sound surprised, which only makes it worse.

“I couldn’t figure out why you stayed,” Ren says, dropping his chin and forcing his face into the flat of Hux’s chest, turning his cheek against the narrow space above his dumb waistcoat.  “With the restaurant and the drugs and my stupid fucking head – ”

“The organization is bigger than you,” Hux interjects, though his tone is less smug than it might be, and the hand around Ren’s nape tightens into a squeeze.

“Especially after I tried to kill you,” Ren finishes, taking a shaky breath through the soft fabric under his nose, and finding earthy cologne, expensive cigarettes, and surprisingly little fear that Hux will shove him away. “You hate me. Hated?”

Hux is still for an anxious moment, then his hand shifts, thumb digging under Ren’s jaw and forcing him to look up; his expression is stern, mouth set flat with unfamiliar emotion. “Hate is complicated, Organa – in our case, especially.”

“My therapist keeps saying I need to get over you because of that,” Ren admits, satisfied to see some shock slip across Hux’s stony face, plush mouth falling open. It makes him feel both better and worse about saying it at all. “But I’m telling him to fuck off now. More than usual.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, throat clearing and his fingers sliding with impunity down the front of Ren’s jacket, toying at each member in the line of red buttons. He hums low and long, “Let’s not say _too_ much.”

Ren feels a flush spread to the tips of his ears, heat pooling in his groin, as he realizes that Hux isn’t just being mocking; he’s practically in a _good mood_. He drags his teeth hard over his lips, nervously catching at the edge and biting down. “You just don't like people knowing you.”

“Quite,” Hux says, slowly beginning to split Ren’s jacket apart, wide lapel sagging further with every parted button. He tuts with an odd sort of victory once it’s unbuttoned completely, smirk flickering noticeably across his face. “I’m so glad we got these in black; you looked awful in those old whites.”

Ren shakes his head, dropping his own hand to the pair of buttons on Hux’s waistcoat, easily separating them with one hand. He hesitantly goes next for the button at Hux’s neck, heart suddenly beating in his own throat, only to end up flinching when Hux takes his hand, lifting it to press a shock of a kiss over his knuckles. He peeks up through his lashes, “Hux?”

“Just don’t do it again,” Hux says, shifting to help with the buttons, exposing his throat and the white tank underneath with little hesitancy. He leans forward, pressing Ren’s hand to his chest at the same time he whispers, soft and severe, in his ear. “But you already know that.”

Ren turns his head on a whim to capture Hux’s mouth, managing to hold him there for a quick, intense moment. He groans when the lips under his slacken, mouth opening and tongue slipping in to slide and press against his own; he tilts his head, trying to get a better angle, only to groan when Hux takes the opportunity to squeeze at his dick still trapped in his pants.

“Such a shame,” Hux says, pulling away from Ren, though it seems only to shove the waistcoat off his shoulders, astonishingly letting it fall in a heap to the floor. “Seems I remembered _that_ wrong.”

Ren can’t help the affronted scoff that escapes him, shoving slightly at Hux only to freeze at the conspicuous creak from the chair beneath them. He takes a careful breath, turning his head when Hux tries to recapture his lips. “Dickhead.”

“Still so sensitive,” Hux mocks, sliding both hands up Ren’s chest, slipping underneath his tee with a squeeze. He shifts forward with a short click of his tongue, and the conspicuous swell in his skinny little trousers, hot and hard, makes the teasing forgettable by comparison. “We all know your cock is as big as the rest of you.”

Ren rolls his eyes and makes a point to widen his legs as far as he’s able, ignoring Hux’s stupid smirk, and shakes off his jacket with an awkward shimmy that threatens to upend them both; peeling his undershirt off in the next moment. He glances back to Hux’s face as he takes his own liberties, pointedly slipping a hand under Hux’s remaining thin tank, sliding up soft skin. He takes a sharp breath as he feels a telltale hardness under his fingers, tracing around a distinctly unnatural shape. “You kept them?”

“Waste of money if I hadn’t.” Hux mutters, visibly biting at his lower lip, complexion going ruddier as the seconds wear on.

Ren huffs at the excuse, using his other hand to shove the tank up under Hux’s chin, holding it there with his thumb and trying not to get irritated that Hux barely tried to get undressed. He stares for a few seconds, then leans forward, tugging lightly on the barbell with his teeth. “ _Fuck_. I ever tell you I bought you a pair that look like pistols?”

“You did not,” Hux says, his hands sliding around Ren’s shoulders. His voice is only a little strained, but enough that it’s practically a victory.

“I did,” Ren says, nosing up Hux’s neck and pressing a light kiss to his throat; careful, he’s got to be so careful.

Hux is quiet for a few moments, then swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing under Ren’s lips. “When?”

Ren opens his mouth, only to pause with chagrined realization, and hopes his belated hum is low and vague, as he tries not to let the sudden rise of mortification ruin his mood. He looks down, leans away from gleam of metal, only to find himself caught on an entirely different detail of Hux’s chest. “Have you been working out?” He asks, trailing his fingertips across the flat planes of Hux’s abdomen; tracing along the v of his hips.

“You’re hardly the only one allowed in a gym,” Hux says, with a huff, fingers of one hand slipping back into Ren’s hair to massage again at his scalp. “Though I must admit, your new hobby has necessitated it.”

“Not new,” Ren corrects absently, tracing across the rest of Hux’s body with shifted interest.

He finds things he should have noticed without touching; shoulders broader under his hands, and thighs strong with lean muscle, but the changes aren’t only physical, prompting a well of shame for not seeing it before Hux was literally in his lap. He’s not so frigid and angry, or half starved with one foot in the streets; his confidence is real, and he’s so much less paranoid that he actually _invited_ law enforcement into the _Upsilon_.

It’s not that Hux is a different person, not _really_ , but something about it aches at the center of Ren's chest. He’s been right next to Hux the entire time, yet missed every bit of it happening because he was caught up in his own shit.

He startles when pair of hands wrap like steel around his wrists, pulling him back to the present with pointed placement near the straining outline of a conspicuous hard-on. He hears Hux exhale a gratified sigh in the next moment, when he takes the obvious direction to squeeze and palm Hux through his pants, as if there should be shame for holding interest in anything outside his dick.

Ren finds himself tilting his head when he feels a pair of cool fingers press up under his jaw, slipping under his hair and tight around his nape, but thumb lingering in a distinct spot. “You keep doing that,” he says, only to swallow hard when Hux’s hand disappears, and not just to drop back to his shoulder, but completely away. “Touching the lines.”

“Lines,” Hux repeats flatly, unexpected annoyance coloring his tone. He leans back with narrowed eyes, catching Ren’s like a snare, then glancing markedly to the scar with a frown twisting at his lips. “Have you even looked at it?”

“Obviously,” Ren snaps, ignoring an urge to reach up and cover the scar. He had expected more when he’d handed over the knife, something brutal to wear all the way around his throat like he does the scar across his face, but instead Hux and been _Hux_ about it, leaving it stinging and small. The frustration at his lack of punishment lingers in more than memory. “I see it in every goddamn mirror.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, then reaches tersely behind himself, evidently for his phone. His thin fingers nudge Ren’s head back, and a second later he’s holding up the screen with a flipped picture. “There, do you see?”

Ren stares for a few seconds at the image, feeling his eyes go wide: an A and H, fused together into a familiar symbol, seen often on notes and cufflinks. “Oh,” he says, feeling his flush deepen and knowing how fucked up it is, but he can’t quite stop it – Hux hadn’t quite gotten revenge, but he’d given Ren a _brand_. He finds himself wetting his lips, rubbing hard at the scar himself and trying to feel out the letters, finding the details better as the skin swells under his fingertips. “I… I didn’t see it. Like that.”

Hux seems to allow the excuse with a short scoff, but he also looks distracted, and his phone is soon dropped behind Ren’s back with a clunk onto the desk. “What’s this?” He asks, voice lowering, almost coy, as he looks at Ren through a narrow, translucent fan of his eyelashes. He reaches up and grabs Ren’s wrist, shocking him into going still. “You little _masochist_. You’re the reason it took so long to heal, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” Ren says, swallowing tightly and dropping his hand, balling it up in a fist over his groin and trying not to press down, to release just a little bit of that pressure. He’s not about to admit, not yet, he’s been doing that when he jacks off for _months_ , but his body definitely won’t seem to let it go for any amount of dignity.

Hux hums low, then slowly, almost gently, proceeds where Ren left off, escalating until he’s digging into the scar and re-drawing the letters with stinging drags of his dull nails. He keeps it up even when he leans forward to bite at Ren’s mouth, and another set of fingers soon joins in, catching on the more obvious scar marring his face, tracing it ungently from his brow to his collarbone, then softly scratching into his bare chest.

Hux breaks them apart for a few seconds, mouth drifting up with a low, shaky huff against Ren’s ear. “Not so loud; you’re going to have our staff thinking I’m finally killing you.”

“Fuck you,” Ren gasps, trying to heed to the little voice that whispers he looks weak, he needs to get it together, but another, louder voice is fucking _singing_ with every scrape.

It’s been so long since he’s really indulged like this, since it’s been more than just _memory_  channeled into his own clumsy fumbling, and it’s as if every spike of pain goes straight to his dick before the nerves even reach his brain. He shifts a twitching hand along Hux’s lower back, rutting forward and feeling a certain buzz when Hux responds with a grind down, until they’re rocking against each other in perfect time.

He turns his head into the kiss, dragging his other hand down Hux’s chest to squeeze at the shape of his dick, toying along the zipper and a little embarrassed to realize he’s waiting for permission. He thinks about the sagging couch only a few feet away, knowing this can’t last in the unstable chair forever, and –

The little bubble of pleasure bursts with a nasty start, Ren jerking back when lapsed reflex rears its head and prompts him to look to the door, and he reaches up to cover Hux’s chest at the same moment it swings open. He’s not sure the piercings are even a secret, but he’s got nerves pulsing at the base of his throat; the urgency to do something – _anything_ , beating in the recesses of his mind.

“Sir, Phasma is – I, what?! Oh _fuck_ ,” Thanisson stutters, scrambling to shut the door, only to slam it onto the arc of his foot, squeak again, then finally manages to slam it just in front of Phasma’s unimpressed look. A conspicuous thunk sounds through the wood, likely Thanisson’s forehead.

“She’s a bit early,” Hux says, his voice hoarse, if surprisingly apathetic to the intrusion, and his fingers relax to deliver a series of thoughtful taps across Ren’s neck, soon sliding down his front with a few more taps across his collarbone. He shifts tellingly backward, rising some from his place on Ren’s lap. “I do hope she managed the whole shipment.”

Ren glances back to him with a start, trying to blink away the discomforting sting of unshed tears. He tightens his arms, trying to pull Hux back into his chest with a palm full of his ass as he leans forward to mouth again around a peaky nipple, hoping to get them back on track.

“Brat,” Hux scolds sharply, and Ren finds himself pulled back by the roots of his hair, a pair of unimpressed eyes glaring down at him. Hux then slips from the chair, tragically already buttoning his shirt with his free hand. “You’ll finish up your shift.”

“Like this - _seriously_?” Ren snaps, gesturing to his hard dick and feeling a snarl form across his mouth, only to badly swallow back a yelp when he finds himself shaken none-too-gently by his hair, just enough that he can’t help but rock upward into empty space. He whines when Hux lets go in the next moment, and tries again to reach out and pull him back – if they don’t finish this now, it’ll drive him nuts; definitely make him think it didn’t happen at all.

Hux sighs shortly and seems to let himself be dragged, if only to lean down, his lips a split second of pressure across Ren’s mouth. He’s already got himself mostly put back together, but he can’t cover up that rosy flush lingering across his neck and face, or the shape of his dick still straining in black trousers. “Self-control, Kylo. I know you’ve got some built up _somewhere_.”

“Used it up not killing your _guest_ ,” Ren mutters, grudgingly letting Hux loose, then leaning sideways, retrieving the waistcoat with a shake from the floor to hold up in front of Hux. He shifts uncomfortably in the chair, determined not to fidget, and hopes he can find a few minutes without Hux noticing to go _relieve_ himself.

“It’s only a few hours,” Hux says, his tone exasperated, as he pulls the waistcoat over his shoulders, buttoning it across his middle. He seems to be making a show of being aloof, tidying his hair with a glance into his phone screen. “After, I expect you to follow me home. Do _not_ go wank in the damned toilet – I can see that look in your eye.”

Ren shakes his head, looking away as he lazily tries to hide a smirk behind a scowl. He stands from the chair, groaning slightly as an aching muscle in his back pulls taut, and glances down only to find his own dick practically standing out like a flag against his fly; if there was any day to wear underwear, it would’ve been today.

“Actually, I – ” Hux coughs shortly, his voice suddenly absent the self-assured tone of moments earlier, now gone downright rough. “You could also just head that way now, and I could follow after I speak to Phasma.”

Ren looks up with a start only to get caught in Hux’s gaze, finding it dark and ravenous; he tries to swallow only to hear his throat click, mouth having gone dry. “Sounds good.”

**Author's Note:**

> It literally came to me at random, I assume fed by the primal need to procrastinate all of my other projects. (I MIGHT have seen some pictures of DG on set of The Kitchen, alright? I'm also aware it's not a real kitchen, but it is now ~~)
> 
> I can be found on the [twitters](https://twitter.com/ezlebe?lang=en) and lesser so on [ tumblr](http://ezlebe.tumblr.com) at Ezlebe


End file.
